Waiting for a Friend
by ErinysProvence
Summary: She pulled open the wooden door and entered as a cloud of cigarette smoke exited. Perhaps, she thought, fingering a light chain around her neck, perhaps this time. DMGW.


Disclaimer: I do not own or claim any right to the characters created by J.K. Rowling and seen in her Harry Potter books. All that is mine is the horrible plotline of this one-shot fanfic.

A/N: This is just something that hit at the end of finals week. Blame sleep deprivation and information overload on my part if you don't like it. Here it is without further ado.

**Waiting for a Friend:  
**

The night was chill and gloomy, just as it had been on that night every year since she had moved to that part of the world, and a light fog obscured the streetlights as she walked to her destination. Nobody noticed her as she slipped through the crowd. The dark gray pea-coat that protected her from the April weather blended in with those of others out on the streets, unobtrusive. Nothing about the woman stood out. It was as if her appearance was engineered to be forgettable. Her brown hair and brown eyes easily blended in with those of other people, unless that is, one were to notice the seemingly unnatural reddish sheen to her locks, the gold and black flecks that dotted her irises or the fire mixed with weariness that could only be glimpsed momentarily through her chestnut orbs.

She stopped before a run down building, the sign above the door proclaiming The Tarred Dragon Nightingale Pub & Inn. She pulled open the wooden door and entered as a cloud of cigarette smoke exited.

_Perhaps_, she thought, fingering a light chain around her neck, _perhaps this time_.

It was the fifth year she had made the pilgrimage to the out of the way pub, always on the same night, on the slightest chance her efforts would be rewarded with the thing she most sought. As she had for the past four years, she sat in the booth in the corner, alone, and ordered a single drink. The bartender regarded her warily while the waitress complained about the woman taking up an entire booth without so much as ordering a basket of chips. The woman only stared into her glass. Once or twice, a male patron approached the lone woman, but each time they were told the same thing.

"Sorry, I'm waiting for someone."

Waiting she was, but why she continued to wait, she barely knew. No word from home had reached her during her stay abroad. She did not even know if the person she waited for still lived, if any of those she left behind still lived or still thought of her. She had told herself that it was foolish to continue to hope, chastised herself in the preceding days for holding onto such fancies and swore that hereafter, she would no longer make the annual pilgrimage. Of course, this was the same argument she had had with herself and the vow the same she had made the past three years before this night, yet she always ended up in the seedy pub again. If nothing happened tonight, she knew she would be back next year, still hoping that she would see a face or hear a voice she now only knew in her memories.

As the night wore on, the woman sat in silence, reminiscing of days past, friends, enemies and trivial matters. Nothing mattered much to her anymore. Absorbed as she was, she did not register the constant whirring of the jukebox, the increasing volume of chatter around her, or the buzzing activity of the pub. She was in her own world, away from the confines of life among the "normal" people.

So absorbed was she that she failed to notice a stranger enter her sanctuary. While the other patrons had failed to notice the woman, they could not fail to notice the stranger. His air of confidence, pride, arrogance, demanded attention. His steely eyes flitted over the crowd inside the building until his gaze landed on the corner booth. He walked up to the bar, ordered a drink, then made his way to her table.

"Gary Marcus Weston," the man stated, startling the woman.

She looked up at the man who had interrupted her reverie. He was tall, but not so tall that he threatened her with his mere presence, and broad shouldered, but not moreso than the average man of his height. His light brown hair hung to his jaw, slightly ruffled and he wore an expression of indifference on his defined features, his right eyebrow slightly raised at her inspection. He wore a long black overcoat and glasses, frameless, she noted, disguising lines not normally seen on a man his age around his eyes. Her eyes met his.

"Delia Leandra Murdoch," she replied.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Please."

The two sat in silence, neither feeling the need to speak, to break the feeling of rewarded waiting.

"So, Mr. Weston, what brings you to a pub on the outskirts of Boston on an April night? From the sound of it you are far from home. I must admit, it is nice to hear a fellow Brit's accent once again."

"Thank you, Ms. Murdoch. I'm looking for a friend. And what, may I inquire, brings you out to such and undesirable location tonight?"

"I am waiting for someone I have not seen in five years."

Once again, the two fell into a comfortable silence.

"You said your name is Delia Leandra Murdoch, correct?" She nodded in assent. "DLM. I once had a friend with the same initials, a fellow with blonde hair, platinum really. He went by Dray to those closest to him, though he was known to blast anybody else who tried to call him that. He was a bit a ferret, actually." He smirked.

"And you said you are Gary Marcus Weston?" He too nodded. "Interesting. GMW. It just so happens that I once knew a girl with those initials, a real fireball, red hair and a temper to match. Her name was Gin."

"What happened to your fireball of a friend? Why don't you tell me about her."

"She was involved in a political movement of sorts, made a number of enemies just by being who she was as her entire family was involved in the movement. She was brought up to believe in the movement's ideals from the time she could understand speech. She fell in love with the son of one of her family's enemies, saw the good in him in spite of popular opinion, brought him to her side. She was equally devoted to him and her cause. As for the cause, she got in too far, infiltrated the enemy inner circle, got caught, was nearly killed by the enemy. I hear she died anyway that same day by the hand of her lover when he accidentally shot her, thinking she was one of his father's comrades." The woman, once again fingering the chain around her neck, looked up at her companion to see the traces of a sad smile sweeping across his features. "What of your friend, the platinum blonde?"

"He too got involved with a political movement of sorts, probably the same one as your friend if she was from Britain. It started off as following a girl and a thing of rebellion against his family, then became something along the lines of a true change of heart. His parents were on the other side of the movement and he was expected to follow mindlessly, but he didn't. His family disowned him, but by then it didn't matter anymore. He had found something he believed in and had a woman he loved by his side. He gained the trust of those who once despised him, including her friends and family. It turns out his long-time mentor was a spy for the side of the movement my friend supported, as was my friend's lady love. The mentor was found out, executed by the woman who didn't want to blow her cover, then the same happened to the woman, only she was accidentally killed by friendly fire after she was found out. They were engaged, my friend and the woman. He was distraught, as was her family. Her family moved on quicker than the man did. They took him in, helped him to get on with his life. He followed in her footsteps, became a spy, learned the art of espionage. It wasn't easy; he had to convince his family and their partners in crime that he had seen the error of his ways. For a while, it lasted, but eventually, he was found out. Supposedly, one of the woman's brothers had also infiltrated the enemy circle and the brother was forced to kill my friend or be exposed himself." The man glanced up from his glass as he finished his tale. The woman across from him was sadly smiling too. Both of them knew that the tests had been passed, knew who they were now looking at in spite of any physical appearance deviations from memories.

"That's just so sad about your friend. I mean, first his mentor, then his fiancée, then the friend himself. I know from experience that the separation from a loved one can be painful. I can't imagine how he felt." The woman placed her hand on that of the man across from her. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

The man just nodded. The two got up, left a tip, and exited the seedy institution. As they exited, the man reached out and took the woman's hand, stopping her incessant fiddling with her necklace. As her hand receded, she pulled the chain from beneath her shirt, revealing an intricately engraved gold ring baring a single diamond. She made no move to hide the jewelry again. They walked seemingly without purpose for a few minutes before both simultaneously slowed to a stop. The man took the woman's other hand in his as they faced each other.

"I've missed you. Five years is too long," stated the man.

"I agree, five years is much too long. I don't care that I was hiding for my own safety, I would have much rather been with you and not been safe. I've missed you."

He pulled her into an embrace.

"Please say you are the same woman you were last time I saw you," he plead as they broke apart and he fingered her gold chain with one hand and reclaimed one of hers with the other.

"As far as I know, I am. You can ask Uncle Samuel if he thinks I've changed since I came to live with him," she replied with a grin, leading the man down the street.

"Uncle Samuel?" The man's confusion was evident.

"Uncle Samuel Salem, a certain greasy haired, dungeon dwelling bat you were fond of at one time. He keeps my mental sparring skills up while I get to annoy him without fear of having points docked." The woman poked her companion in the side and he flinched.

"Ah, Uncle Samuel. How is he, by the way?" The man smirked down at the woman.

"Do you really want me to answer that? He's the same as he's always been, and that's as much as I can say without insults. He'll be happy to see you."

"We owe him so much, you know. The ability to portray Ginevra and Draco's deaths, our ability to be who we are now, so much more." Seriousness once more overtook the man.

"He _never _lets me forget it. Oh, and by the way, he still thinks our code and identification system for each other is a bunch of rubbish. Wait until he knows it worked!" The woman veritably bounced at her words and the man grinned at her antics before scowling once again.

"I still think he should have let me know where you two were before I too had to disappear. Instead, I heard it just before I left England from your goody-goody prat of a brother, and I'm not talking about Ron."

"Well, you can take that up with dear Uncle Samuel in a few hours. I still don't know why he made that stick in the mud Percy the Prat our secret-keeper. Anyway, right now, we need to catch a bus home."

"A bus? You have got to be kidding. I don't ride busses." The scowl gracing the man's aristocratic features morphed into the pout of a petulant child. The woman laughed, a rich, bubbling laugh that worked to heal years old wounds in both their hearts.

"You do now, tough stuff. Get used to it. Money doesn't grow on trees for you here."

"I can't believe you expect me to live like a muggle, and a poor one no less!"

"Not poor, just not as affluent as you are used to. Do you really think _Uncle Samuel_ would live like a _poor_ muggle?" She patted the man on the cheek with her free hand and the two continued to the bus station.


End file.
